by Rowan Keats
“He’s done for,” one of them said, coughing.
“Are ye certain? I thought I saw him move.”
The first man shrugged. “If he’s still alive now, he won’t be for long. The fire will take him.”
“Let’s go then.”
Still coughing, they ran into the lane and disappeared into the darkness.
Morag stared at the door after they ran off. It was possible they’d been speaking about the fishmonger, but her gut said differently. Those men were likely working for the traitorous man in black. And if she was right, there was only one man those men would be after—Wulf.
Had Wulf gone into the shop looking for her?
She stepped toward the door, and then stopped. Her chest was unbearably tight just thinking about going back inside the burning shop. But if Wulf was in there, injured but still alive . . .
Morag whipped the brat back over her mouth and nose.
If he was in there, she had to get him out.
She stepped into the smoke, immediately feeling a blast of heat pulse over her body. Her eyes stung and immediately began to water, but she pressed on. How would she ever find him in this murk?
He would have headed for the stairs had he come looking for her, so that was the best direction to head. Morag sank to her knees and made her way, low to the ground where the smoke was thinner. She moved as quickly as she could, but the route was perilous—chunks of smoldering thatch kept falling from the roof, and occasionally one hit her. Twice she had to kick pieces aside.
A few feet along she found a body.
Her heart raced with hope, but she swiftly determined that the body was too slim and too short to be Wulf’s. It was the fishmonger. Her instincts had led her astray. Morag berated herself for being foolish enough to reenter the burning shop. She spun around, intending to exit as swiftly as she could, when she heard a groan.
Halting, she listened carefully. With the roar of the flames in her ears, she might have been mistaken.
Nay. There it was again.
To her left.
Morag turned toward the sound and started to crawl. She moved aside a wooden crate of herring and spied a familiar set of boots. It was Wulf. But just as she moved toward him, a large beam from the ceiling dropped to the floor with a loud crash. One end struck a barrel of fish and the other struck the floorboards. Morag shrieked and pulled back, aware that she’d very narrowly escaped being crushed.
But a burning beam now lay between her and Wulf. The only safe way to reach him would be to go around the barrels of fish to the other side of the shop.
Too far.
And judging from the falling wood from the roof, it was unlikely she had time. The shop was about to collapse. She had to get Wulf out quickly.
Morag looked at her hands.
Bare skin and burning beams did not mix well. She tore several long strips from her skirts and wrapped them snugly around both palms, creating a fat barrier of protection. Then she grabbed the beam in a spot that wasn’t actually burning—just glowing with hot coals—and lifted it using every ounce of strength she possessed.
It was incredibly heavy, and Morag found she could pivot it in only one direction. Slowly, breathing in ragged burning breaths, she edged the beam to one side. But just as she lifted it over Wulf’s body, the cloth protecting her hands started to smolder.
Morag felt the hot coals of the beam bite into her flesh, and she looked down. She stood right over Wulf. If she let go of the beam, it would fall on him. There was no choice. Steeling herself against the pain, she took another step and another. The wads of cloth around her hands burst into flame. Morag heaved the beam aside and shook off the burning material.
The skin of her hands was berry red, and the pain was searing. But her job was not done. Morag grabbed Wulf’s arm with both hands, and much as she’d done four months ago by the loch, she dragged him to safety. It was only a few feet to the door, but smoke filled her lungs and fits of coughing slowed her down. A section of the roof fell in shortly after they exited, sending a powerful whoosh of smoke and fire into the air.
As the fire consumed more of the shop, the back wynd became busier. Several men appeared with buckets, trying to stop the fire from spreading. Fortunately, their attention was focused on saving the other shops, so Morag was able to reach the wynd wall without notice.
Only when she had Wulf hidden in the shadows did she drop to the ground next to him and look at her throbbing hands. Her fingers were curled like the talons of a hawk, and she couldn’t straighten them.
Tears sprang into her eyes as the horrible truth sank in. She might never weave again. How would she provide for herself?
But Wulf was alive. He would return home to Jamie. She had no regrets.
* * *
Still wary of being discovered by the men who’d set the fire, Morag cared for Wulf in a barn not far from the fishmonger’s shop. She had the coin to rent a room, but chose discretion over comfort. Not that the barn was uncomfortable. It was actually quite pleasant. The hay made a good bed, and the roof protected them from the spring rains. But she had to bury Wulf and herself with hay every time the barn door swung open, and constant vigilance had made her bone-weary.
Well, that and worry over Wulf.
The wounds on his head were deep, but they had started to heal. He had no fever and his color was good. The problem was that after two days, he still had not awoken. And his sleep was not peaceful. He regularly tossed and thrashed in the hay. He murmured words she could not make sense of, often with obvious agitation. When his dreams were especially disturbing she shook him and spoke to him, trying to end the nightmares. The sound of her voice sometimes calmed him, but it never truly broke through the dreams. He slumbered on.
Spoonfuls of vegetable broth were not enough sustenance for a man of his size, and he’d grown noticeably leaner, so Morag took a risk and hired a healer. But it was wasted coin. The old woman offered little advice save to bleed him.
Morag resorted to prayer—and a visit to the market for heartier food. She would have attempted the journey home, but the cart had been lost in the fire, and her pony had been collected by the constable. The discovery of the fishmonger and his wife in the rubble of the shop had caused all sorts of talk.
Fingers had been pointed at Wulf and Morag as the culprits, but fortunately it was decided that since the fishmonger had died without a dirk in his chest, it was he who had done his wife in. Apparently there had been frequent arguments between the two.
Morag sighed with relief when she overheard that tale in the market. She had worries enough without running from the constable.
She parted with some coin to purchase an oxtail, hoping to make a heartier broth for Wulf. By necessity, she also bought a new gown—a dull brown affair to replace her torn and fishy smelling dress. The soot had come out of her brat with a good wash, but nothing could remove the fishy odor clinging to Morag’s gown. Not even lye soap.
Packages in hand, Morag sneaked back into the barn through a loose plank in the back wall. The building was a temporary hold for horses shipped by sea, and several of the stalls at the rear were empty. Wulf lay in one, covered in hay.
She brushed away the chaff and checked on his condition. No change. It was too dangerous to make a cooking fire inside the barn, so she set her broth to boil outside. The sky was heavy with clouds, and she prayed the rain would hold off until the soup was done.
She returned to Wulf’s side.
His thrashing had worsened, and the hay around him was scattered. Mumbled noises escaped his lips as he turned his head from one side to another, only occasionally forming a recognizable word.
“Elen. No.”
Morag started at the sound of his dead wife’s name. Not once in all the months he’d lived with her had he spoken that name. Not even in sleep. Her heart ached as she realized he was reliving a memory of his past. The moment she had feared was approaching. As she’d always known they would, his memories were returning.
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She laid a curled hand on his shoulder, rubbing her knuckles over his flesh. “Wulf. ’Tis I, Morag. Wake thee up.” She uttered the words in a low voice, not expecting a response.
So she gasped when he suddenly opened his eyes.
Then she beamed and threw herself atop his chest. “Och, Wulf, I cannot believe it! I feared you might never awaken.”
He stiffened beneath her.
Morag leapt back, worried that some injury yet plagued him. But the expression on his face was not a wince of pain. It was horror. He was staring at her like she’d crawled out of a dung heap.
“No,” he said hoarsely. “No.”
She put a hand on his forearm. “What is it?”
He shook off her hand and sat up. “No, it cannot be true. It cannot be real.”
“What cannot be real?” asked Morag. But in her heart she knew. His memories had not come back slowly, a bit at a time, as she’d expected. They’d come in a rush, all at once.
“You,” he shouted, leaping to his feet. He stumbled and stared at his legs—both injured—with a look of utter betrayal. “This. Everything.”
Morag got to her feet, trying not to feel as though her heart were breaking. But it was.
He lifted his gaze to hers, his eyes dark and tormented. “Because if this is real, then . . .” He put both hands to his face, rubbing and scrubbing as if he could erase whatever vision was in his thoughts. “No.”
But even in the midst of her heartbreak, she ached for him. Because she knew the course of his thoughts. Elen and Hugh and that terrible night in November.
He went completely still. “No.”
Then he sank to his knees in the hay.
For the first time since she’d met him, she saw Wulf’s shoulders curl in absolute defeat. His head hung low, a reflection of hopelessness that was the very opposite of the man she knew.
“Dear God,” he moaned. “Elen. Hugh. It was all real.”
But his despair was short-lived. An instant later his hands fisted, and he threw back his head. His face was still dark, but now it was rage that held court—a terrifying, bitter rage that made Morag take a step back.
He surged to his feet, raised his fists in the air, and howled like his namesake.
* * *
Most of the shop had been consumed by the fire. The entire front of the building, including the room that had been occupied by MacCurran and his woman, was gone. All that remained was blackened rubble.
Dunkeld eyed the destruction with satisfaction. He halted a passerby and pointed to the ruined building. “A tragedy, that. Was anyone injured?”
The sailor frowned. “I heard it said that a man and his wife perished within. But we’ve only just docked, so ye might be wise to query another.”
Dunkeld nodded.
A man and his wife. That certainly sounded promising. Before they set sail for England his brother-in-law’s men had assured him that MacCurran had been slain—but he’d been disappointed by the service of others too often to take them at their word. He circled around to the back of the shop. The damage was not as severe here. A portion of the inner structure remained intact, and it was possible to enter. Rubble had been cast aside, and he could see the two tidier spots where the bodies had lain: one at the base of what was once a staircase, and one closer to the side door. All of it was consistent with the story his henchmen had relayed, and yet, Dunkeld wondered.
Two bodies would not account for the shopkeep.
Three bodies would have made him happier.
To his mind, that meant someone had escaped. He kicked aside several twisted hazel sticks that had once been spars on the roof thatch. There, covered by a thin layer of soot, was a wide drag mark, leading toward the door. Someone, or something, had been dragged out of the shop.
Dunkeld frowned.
Glancing over his shoulder, he spied the wynd behind the shop. Following the feeling in his gut, he left the burned shell of the building and trudged up the lane. The buildings on either side were warehouses, most with locked doors and no windows. Up ahead lay a few homes and a barn. Behind the barn, he could see the thin wisp of a cook fire rising up into the air.
It might be nothing.
Or it might be everything.
Dunkeld trekked up the lane and made his way quietly around to the back of the barn. When he peered around the corner he could see only the fire and a clay pot seated in the glowing coals. So he waited.
And he was rewarded.
A few moments later, a woman exited the barn by pushing aside a loose plank and bent to tend to the meal. A brat was draped over her head and shoulders, and he was unable to make out her features, but having followed her from Edinburgh wearing a similar disguise, he recognized the slim shoulders and curved rump.
It was MacCurran’s woman.
Seizing the moment, Dunkeld drew his dirk and dived around the corner. But he was an instant too late. The woman picked up the pot and ducked back inside the barn. The plank swung back into place, leaving Dunkeld staring at a pine knot. He leaned in, trying to hear through the wooden barrier but caught only vague murmurs from within. Snatching the woman outside the barn was one thing. Rushing headlong into a room he couldn’t see was quite another. Who knew what lay inside? MacCurran might have called upon aid from his brethren.
He lowered his dirk.
Perhaps it was time to make use of the constable.
* * *
“Eat some soup.”
Wulf turned away from the bowl Morag offered. His stomach was too tight to eat, his head too full of the memories that were suddenly his again. Memories that were so sharp they left a gaping hole in his heart. The miserable events of the night kept playing over and over in his head.
There had been music and wine and food to celebrate the visit of the king’s courier, Henry de Coleville. Sixteen courses, the third of which had been Elen’s favorite—eel soup. Wee Hugh had been one of the first to fall ill. Wulf had left the high table to see to him when Elen, too, fell ill. The poison had been virulent, taking hold quickly, and it was only minutes later that he was clasping his wee bonny boy to his chest, blue lipped and lifeless. The memories were fresh, like those moments had happened yesterday, even though he could also remember all the events of the past four months.
A part of him wanted simply to grieve. To let the bitter weight of his memories press him into the earth. Elen had been a good wife and a fine mother. The moment she realized the danger lay in the eel soup, she knocked the spoon from Jamie’s hand and sent his bowl flying. She hadn’t deserved to die, especially in such a cruel way. Hugh passed so quickly, the wee lad barely knew he was ill, but Elen had known she was dying, and she had reached for him, weeping.
Wulf swallowed tightly.
“I know who the man in black is,” he said, his voice rough. “I need a sword and a dirk.”
“I saved your sword from the fire,” Morag told him.
“Where is it?”
She remained silent, and he spun around to glare at her. “Damn you, Morag. Are you with me or against me?”
Morag stood taller. “I am with you, as I have always been. But I won’t applaud your desire to rush into battle without adequate preparation. That’s what nearly got you killed down by the loch.”
“My wife and son need avenging,” he roared. “Would you have me turn my back on justice?”
“Nay,” she said softly.
“You have no idea how hard it is for me to stand here, knowing what I know. Knowing that I’ve had the chance to claim justice and failed to take it.”
She stared back at him, frowning. “Who is—”
“In the name of the king,” came a loud male voice from outside. “Lay down your weapons and surrender!”
Wulf stiffened.
“The barn is surrounded. Come out peacefully and you will survive another day!”
No. He fisted his hands. It couldn’t end this way. Not when he finally had his memories. Not when he finally knew who the man
in black was.
Morag grabbed his hand and tugged.
Wordlessly, she pointed to a stack of grain sacks on the opposite wall, and pulled him toward them. Behind the sack, hidden beneath a woven mat of hay, was a trapdoor. He tugged on the iron ring, lifted the door, and stared into the hole. On the ground below lay his sword and the bulk of their possessions. Beyond that, a dark tunnel.
A smuggler’s egress, likely leading down to the wharves.
Without a torch, it would be a difficult journey, but surely better than what lay in store for them outside the barn.
Wulf jumped into the hole, then offered his hand to Morag. He closed the trapdoor behind them, pulling the rope that replaced the hay mat as he did so. Then he gathered up their belongings and, with her hand firmly in his grip, led the way down the dark, dank tunnel toward the firth.
* * *
In the dark, with Wulf’s warm hand wrapped gently around her burned palm, Morag could almost forget the past hours. How many times had he held her like this with fondness in his heart?
But that man was gone. He was no longer her gentle warrior, content to chop her wood and thatch her bothy. She’d seen the last of that quiet man who polished his sword by the fire as she worked on her loom. He no longer wanted her soup, or her advice.
He was once again the Wulf MacCurran who’d ridden after the man who had poisoned his family and fought like a man possessed when ambushed by that man’s disciples. He was once again the grieving husband of Elen and father of Hugh.
And in some ways, she was pleased for him.
She had known this day would come, had steeled her heart against it. But her preparations had not been enough.
The look on his face as he’d asked her, Are you for me or against me?, had nearly ripped her heart out. She’d always stood for him. From the moment she first spied him at Dunstoras, she’d held nothing but admiration for the handsome young warrior. And the day she’d been shunned, when he had called a halt to the abuse of the villagers and then carried her loom into the woods, would forever be etched in her memories. She had loved him for such a long time.
She could forgive Wulf anything.